Exodus 3:14

by Andrew GerlachToday, when I was reading Exodus,I forgot that it’s not Times New Roman,not 12 point font, neat and innocuous.Not just words, cleanly aligned and typewritten.So I was startled to see the smolderingembers of three letters no longer thereand only black charred borders, flickeringwith quiet crackle and soft, glowing glare.I can see they’ve scorched their way clean throughthe page and burned through chapters two and oneof Exodus, through Genesis and throughdesk and cold floor and Summit’s foundation.Peering down, I look into their fiery path.They’ve fallen flaming through the crust and mantle,Two burning, blazing words of love or wrath,12 point letters of the truth eternal.For me from Exodus to Bethlehem,Shielding my eyes I see them— I A M

A Yarn

by Becca Rehberger

The afternoon was beginning to wane,But still no thinning of the pouring rain;As I stared out to the cold, wet gray,Josh had to show me what he did today.He held up a drawing, a scribbly blob,And gravely informed me it was Uncle Bob:“He’s gone to the moon in a flying car,He’s been on TV to play his guitar,He’s a cowboy, a ninja, and a pirate, too,He can turn his hair green and make his skin blue,And can make any candy come out of thin air,He’s ridden a T-Rex and tackled a bear,He loves to come to preschool with me,And also he’s Batman and Chef Boyardee…”

Though Uncle Bob’s been away for a year,I think he’d have laughed if he’d been here.For this Uncle Bob I only know‘Cause my little brother had told me so!

Take upon your shoulder a bag of many thingsand haul it along the sandy path that leads to almost nothingFollowing in the footsteps you thought you’d never takeof the brave in your country who are blessed upon their gravesAnd as you go down farther, your footsteps start to dragso you stop in the dusty heat to empty part of your bagFirst comes out your homeland, a place you’d never leavebut on this journey it must go, it is something you cannot keepSo you gather up your things and continue on your wayhoping someone might soon pass and find your treasure that layYou gaze ahead to see what’s afar, something that’s in viewand to your surprise you find a guy who’s dropped his homeland tooGrowing weary from your travels, you’d like to take a restbut if you stop you’ll fall behind, so to continue would be bestYou drop your bag once again to lighten up your loadand say goodbye to the friends you once knew back at homeSo you take upon your shoulder a bag of fewer thingsand continue down the gravel road to see what else it bringsCarrying on you pass someone who has been left behindit appears to be a family friend left by a soldier gone byUnderneath your feet the gravel starts to turnand it’s hard to keep your balance with the weight that you discernReleasing your bag uneasily to see what’s left insideyou sacrifice the home you built for your kids and wifeThe path is getting perilous; it would no longer serve a pointyou leave it behind for someone to find and make it his to appointPushing forth you find the road has turned to jagged rockbut it’s a road you must continue to serve those on your blockCasting your eyes upward, you see a house evanescentit’s hard to bare but you understand why a man had left itGrowing weary once again, you’re faced with a hard decisionbut you have to leave your family behind to continue on your missionAnguish comes heavily, groping at your throatyou must not fail your countrymen, despite what you undergoLeaping from ledge to ledge, a casualty if you falland glancing down you discover a male with no such luck at allTaking a seat on the ledge you peer into your sackfor if you don’t take something out you will surely fall backYou withdraw from your sack the last of what is leftthe relationships you have gained when new people you have metQuivering and shaken, it’s the last thing you must docoming near to the end, your mission is almost throughYou’ve passed what has seemed the worse and have nothing left to fearuntil you notice in the distance there is a soldier near“Turn back!” he cries, “and pick up the things you’ve lostFor there is no reason to lose all of that if this may be the costLook to the fore and examine what you seeThese men have given everything and look where they may besunken in the quicksand with nothing but a sackHow can you recognize them with nothing to bring them back?no homeland or friends or a home of their ownno family or love, just forsaken and aloneAll that’s left is a name upon their bootwhich has sunken in the quicksand to be the government’s loot”So you turn back and risk your life, saving what you had once morefor why would you want to risk your life just for the sake of war?

Valentine’s Day reminds meHow meaningful my feelings are for you.You have a special place in my worldThat no one else could fill.Out of your overflowing heart,You add color and light to my life.You continually cross my mind,Like a precious dose of sunshine,Lighting me up inside--As I think of youAnd the lasting memoriesWe have created together.No Valentine giftIs as precious to meAs you are.

You are not dizzy, you are not spinning, you are still.Let the whole world move and shake, let it twist and crumble but you are here.You are with me and our bodies are still.For just a moment we are alone, apart.Cling to me.

Time is so cruel but for this moment it is ours to stretch and twist and mangle.For this moment we exist alone, apart from time, from space, from earth.Just don't lose your grip on me.

There are cavities in the air where our bodies have been.No one will know we've gone. We are alone, apart, and this moment is just a moment, or perhaps it is forever.Would you stay with me forever this way?You have never believed in a thing like this but here you are.Gripping my shoulders between your fingers, breathing into my neck,what you have believed has no bearing on where you are. Alone, apart.Would you stay with me forever this way?There are cavities in the air where our bodies have been.

Your fingers are not getting colder, you are warm.Blood is swimming through your veins.You are warm and you are safe. Quiet. Still.You and I are quiet and still, together. Alone, apart.Anchor yourself to me.

Your eyes are not glazing over, they are vibrant.They are bright blue and they glisten.You are awake and you can see me, you can see my face.You and I are awake together, drenching each other in light.

We are quiet and still and I am pouring images into your brain.Images of my hands, trembling, reaching for your face.In burning love and crippling fear, in passion, in purity.Your lips are scorching.Our muscles and bones melt together, our bodies are indistinguishable.For a moment we are molten flesh, alone, apart from the world.We abandon time and space and there are cavities in the air where our bodies have been.

We are quiet and still and I am pouring images into your brain.Images of your hand around my fingers squeezing, crushing.You are filled with drugs and you don't know, just that you can't do it, you can't.You writhe and you scream and when everything has gone black,I am holding a tiny baby boy.Your eyes brighten and sharpen and you realize this is your child.Your son.Our son.He is wrapped tightly in your arms and you have never been so close to me.

I have waited all my life to be suspended with you, clinging to you.To be hanging indefinitely between time and space, only with you, to escape the shrieking prophets, to break free of gravity's suffocating grip.To live, to stay with you, alone, apart, in this unending moment.To cling to you.To find eternity with you.

But you have not been waiting.You have embraced the shrieking prophets, you have knelt and bowed to gravity to find me.To love me.You have not been waiting to cling to me.This is not your moment of eternity, but your point of departure.

Your fingers get colder.Blood reels listlessly through your veins.You cannot grip me tightly, you are slipping.Your eyes are glazing, the color is fading.They are dull blue and dry, the light has escaped them.The muscles in your fingers, in your hands, in your arms relax.You are short of breath.My shoulders feel naked without your grip.

Rushing wind floods our ears,Colors attack our eyes.Falling.Our bodies are contorted as they collide with the earth and fill the cavities they left.We both crash but only one of us survives the fall.

Varnished Summer.Far gone from the cold months' stripey shadows, we'llfind green and gold like theleprechaun pot of treasure at the end of Spring'snewborn rainbow.

Giddy, then ambitious, planning planningplanning.Planning.He is still younger than infirm Fallwriting its last will and testament in chilldrafts and dirt from dying things.Find him steamy and sticky,clutching like cling-wrap at your sides,enveloping frost-bitten organs--never to thaw,but kept in check for a blissful drunken season.

Drunken like the clouds,like the spirit of holiday. The Varnishcheering and mature as aged wineundampened by rain unscorchedby lightning.

Today was the “Up the Hill, Down the Hill” race.The date is perfect for a tuning pace.It occurs the first August Saturday.This is the first sign if my training will pay,The Cross Country Season is looming near,Will it be one of joy or of a tear?

Oh, what a glorious day for a runon the sunny La Valle hill of fun.

In this small local race, I have run much,but this one is different by a bunch.For my very own sister is running too!I am glad Sarah laced up her running shoe,for we are quite a running pair,now that she also runs from here to there.

Oh, what a glorious day for a runon the sunny La Valle hill of fun.

The race commenced at quarter to nine.I do hope that my right leg will be fine.(A side note is that six runners were therewho won it before—so it will be fair.)Well, true to its name, the hill soon becamea terrifying beast, a lion to tame.

Oh, what a glorious day for a runon the sunny La Valle hill of fun.

Where was I in the midst of this battle?I cruised up, hoofing it like cattle.Big names were there—Harms, Schenke, and one more. . .Orange, gray shirt—I’d never seen him before.But not to worry. I had nothing to fear,for he leapt far ahead just like a deer.

Oh, what a glorious day for a runon the sunny La Valle hill of fun.

A quick left turn and down the hill we go.A mile point five left, I hope I don’t slow.How I did not slip on the pea gravelI do not know, but I had to travelbecause on my heel was a rapid manwhom I heard until the very last span.

Oh, what a glorious day for a runon the sunny La Valle hill of fun.

The final third is on a railroad bed.Here is where you want to surge far ahead.But, contrary to want, most simply tryto keep what they have so they do not cry.But tears are gone when they round the last turnas they realize the triumph in their return.

Oh, what a glorious day for a runon the sunny La Valle hill of fun.

And so my race ended as it had begun.I wasn’t even sad that I had not wonfor I had fared well on that round hill.Yes, I know quite well I would do it stillfor this year was much better than the last.A minute faster and did not get passed!

A flower has faded, much too youngAnd trampled underfoot,Lies broken on the ground.Although we see the flower notWe know that it blooms anewIn heaven, where it glows with strengthFar brighter than before.It glows with vibrant energyAnd radiancy so pure:Letting all who know itThat its hope is sure:That Death does not destroy,Merely transplanted the flower be,Where it shines in glory

Though strange it seems initially that flames should choose to houseBeside the water foreign, reside where may be dousedAnd, likewise, water settle where fire may make it steamThey complement each other despite supposed extremes.Oft' they've met to heat a meal or bath where someone sat.And what have you to say, good sir, yes, what to say to that?

Though flaring flame and water aid each other I do suppose,They are, they will, forever be inherently opposed.Water laid upon a fire quick the fire slaysWhile fire brought to water in time the water steams away.Their unity needs barrier or else they will combat.That’s what I have to say, good sir, yes, what to say to that.

the past projects stories through coloursgreen bottle-glass ground to chalky grey dustunder a scarlet heel, into the dandelion yellowpavement the same colour as her dress. green likehis eyes, grey like his skin, scarlet like...it was supposed to be blue.

there was a chocolate-coloured sky only twicein his life, when he let out his first infant squawk--baby think of the colours. tell me about the colours.the sounds will worry about themselves.

it clashed terribly with the orange flames, herpink skirt and ashen hair. their promises weresilver and daisy white, clasping hands withpetal-soft skin.--baby look at the colourshere a patchwork quilt, a stained glassa rainbow with the paint runningand blending and fusing like oil slick.

his favourite shirt looked like wallpapershe dressed the colour of music the third timethe sky melted into a chocolate colour andher lips tasted like sand.

--baby

pale purple flowers. she only saw the flowersthat smelled like lilacs. they didn’t maskthe other scents. they tasted like ashfelt like wax--please baby--and

Lines composed a few feet below a roof most likely stolen from Tintern Abbey by Andrew Gerlach

The air is heavy, sweet, and ancient—the kind of scent that hits you in the faceafter you’ve descended a flight of rough-hewn stone stepsto some buried Iberian library where youpeel apart the pages of volume IIIof Turkish Naval Maneuvers in the 12th century.

All is silent as Stonehenge except forThe organ’s deep, steady inhalationswhich send tremors through the antiquated air,shaking the floorboards at my feet.On closer inspection I seethe mottled earth-brown knots here, thereand assume they were donated by some Galliclumberjack who split wood in the Black Forest in 500 AD.

Coldplay wafts his way through the floorboardsfrom the practice room belowand stands with a nonchalant, 21st century smirk.The chipped white plaster walls (at least from the1920s) are indignant; they beseech the organ—a Bach prelude, a Buxtehude fugue.The sheen on the organ’s ivory eyes wavers, wishes . . .but no one comes up here anymore.

The stained glass has her back turned; you only seeher smooth pastel locks of amber orange, marble red.She wishes I would leave and turn offthe fluorescence suspended over the room.

The bare organ bench is so worn, I supposethe bottom of Bach himself might have sat there.

As I observe the broken clock ticking,undecided between the 34th and 35th second of 6:52,Ben Folds, that bum, slips between thecracking, lacquered floorboards(probably pilfered from some 17th century Versailles ballroom)past my anachronistic New Balance tennis shoes.

A shepherd's responsibility is quite greatand the Good Shepherd has that trait.He tends his sheep with greatest care,and leads them to the valleys rare;beside still waters He gathers them all,even finding them when they fall.His love beyond compare,question it we do not dare.Every day He gives His beloved all they need,we are the sheep He gathers and feeds,the same sheep He always leads.

A field of flowers fills the plain,Each one different, no two the same.This is the field called Hopes and Dreams,And each flower is a token of youth which springsFrom imagination and fond ambition.But Time passes and the flowers fall one by oneAs by Reality and Maturity they are overrun.That merciless winter brutally slaysEverything that was young and green.What a sad, depressing scene!

But after Winter comes the Spring;The snow melts, new flowers bloomAs new dreams replace the fallen onesWhile some hopes you thought were dead,Prove to be perennial instead.If the Winter of DespairTouched not, the Field of Hopes and DreamsThen the Spring of Hope,Insignificant would seem.